


Reproaches and Recriminations

by flowerfan



Series: A still, small voice [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Forgiveness, Jewish Good Omens (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Yom Kippur | Atonement Day, post almost-apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 12:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20966903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerfan/pseuds/flowerfan
Summary: Aziraphale needs to say something to Crowley before he can say "I love you."





	Reproaches and Recriminations

There’s a chill in the autumn air, and Crowley notes with concern that it's not much warmer inside the bookshop. He flips the sign to closed with a thought as he shuts the door behind him and sets off to find Aziraphale who, not surprisingly, isn’t at the front of the store. He almost never is, preferring to let customers assume that no one is there to help them and then, hopefully, take their leave.

As expected, Aziraphale is in the back room, an array of books lying open on the desk in front of him.

“Crowley, hello,” Aziraphale says, standing up abruptly and clasping his hands together in front of him. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

This is undoubtedly untrue, but not important in the least, so Crowley lets it go.

“Bit cold in here, don’t you think? Surprised you haven’t lit a fire.” He flinches a little as the words tumble out, the horrific memory of the bookshop in flames flashing through his mind. Maybe he’ll get Aziraphale an electric fireplace. They do wonderful things with LEDs these days. The fake logs even glow. Much safer than the real thing. 

“Oh, it is cold, isn’t it?” Aziraphale tuts and goes over to the ancient radiator, but he seems to lose his train of thought before he actually gets there. 

“What have you been up to today? Reading anything interesting?” Crowley wanders over to Aziraphale’s desk, noting that none of the texts are even in English. Guess it hasn’t been a rom-com kind of morning. Maybe that accounts for Aziraphale’s distracted manner.

Crowley pokes around some more. He’s not being nosy, exactly, he’s just never been good at keeping still. Aziraphale’s winged mug is tucked in between a dusty old pencil sharpener and a lamp, but it’s empty of tea. There’s not a single crumpet or packet of crisps in sight. He glances up and finds that Aziraphale is staring somewhat nervously right back at him – until he sees Crowley looking and quickly turns away. 

Something is clearly off. Crowley quickly runs through his own recent actions. Things have been going well between them in the weeks since the day the world didn’t end, and they have established a rather comfortable routine. He doesn’t think he’s mucked anything up yet. He hasn’t ignored Aziraphale’s calls, or forgotten a lunch date. Which reminds him…

“Right. Well, if you’re not too busy, let’s just go. The place will warm up while we’re at lunch, if it knows what’s good for it.”

“Lunch?” Aziraphale turns, looking for all the world like this was the first he’d ever heard of such a thing.

“Yes, lunch.” Crowley perches himself on the arm of the aging sofa. “You do still eat lunch, right? You seemed to do fine with it yesterday, at that noodle place. And the day before, even with the fermented sushi debacle?”

Aziraphale frowns at Crowley. “Don’t be silly, of course I still eat lunch.”

“Well, let’s go, then. You were talking about pastrami the other day, we could go to that place where you got the knishes, they’ve got pastrami too, I checked.”

“They’re closed today,” Aziraphale says. 

“Okay, then we can do Italian. That bistro with the cold soup you liked, although given the weather maybe something warmer would be a better choice. French onion, squash bisque,” Crowley ticks off some of Aziraphale’s favorites. “Come on,” he says, when Aziraphale makes no move to leave.

“I don’t want to leave yet.” Aziraphale says faintly. “I’m afraid my mind was on other things this morning.”

That seals the deal, then. Something is definitely up. Usually nothing short of an apocalypse takes Aziraphale’s mind off lunch. It’s not hyperbole, Crowley knows this from experience. And the way Aziraphale is pacing the room isn’t doing anything to convince him otherwise.

Might as well cut to the chase. “Aziraphale, what’s wrong?”

Aziraphale looks at him worriedly, confirming Crowley’s hunch. This does not, however, make him feel better. “I have to talk to you.”

“Okay,” Crowley drawls, trying to keep his voice steady. He pushes a foot hard against the floor to stop it from tapping. “So let’s talk.”

Aziraphale comes to a stop in front of him, squares his shoulders, and bites his lip. Crowley notes with some trepidation that Aziraphale is trembling. This can’t be good. Crowley courageously suppresses the urge to snake out of the shop and hide under a rock.

“I need to ask your forgiveness, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. Crowley’s first thought is relief – he didn’t screw anything up – and then he starts to panic, anyway, because this is weird. Aziraphale is an angel. They don’t do anything that needs to be forgiven, by definition. (Although, to be fair, this seems to be more of an aspirational goal than a reality, given recent events). And Crowley is a demon. He doesn’t get to be forgiven, let alone need to forgive an angel.

“No, you don’t need to do any such thing.”

Aziraphale squirms. “I do. For the way I treated you. Many times. But… at the bandstand, in particular. We’ve never discussed it, and there are some things I need to clear up.”

“Nah, angel, it’s fine. You were under a lot of stress, we both were-”

“Please, my dear, let me finish.” Aziraphale is standing even closer to him now, his clear blue eyes imploring.

“All right, sure.”

The moment sits. Crowley feels like he might shake right out of his skin, but he stays balanced on the arm of the sofa, and waits.

Finally Aziraphale breathes, and continues. “You _are_ my friend, my dearest friend, and it was wrong of me to say otherwise. Terribly wrong. Even if I was upset. Even if I was… confused, about what to do next. Having doubts about matters that I never thought I’d doubt.”

Crowley nods, but Aziraphale shakes his head at him and goes on.

“You didn’t deserve to be included in that, Crowley. My doubt and confusion. So many times I lashed out at you, when you didn’t deserve it. You have been the one thing, the one being, who has never let me down. Even when you had every right – every expectation, to do so.”

Crowley is suddenly warm down to his toes, despite the faulty radiator. 

“I hurt you, and I am so sorry. I value you more than I can say. Please forgive me.” 

Crowley swallows hard, and thanks whoever that he still has his glasses on (he and Aziraphale have been pretending for millennia that Aziraphale can’t see through them, and there’s no need to act any differently today). “Of course, angel,” he says, voice tight. “Nothing to forgive.”

Aziraphale practically stomps his foot. “But there is, don’t you see? I – I love you, and I was horrible to you, and you don’t deserve it. You have to understand that it isn’t right for me to treat you that way.”

Crowley nearly falls off the arm of the sofa, struggling to right himself as his limbs flail. “What – you – you what?”

Aziraphale extends his hand and helps Crowley stand up. His skin is warm and soft, and his touch seems to calm every nerve in Crowley’s body. “I love you,” Aziraphale repeats softly.

Crowley feels heat spread through his chest. He opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a breathless “oh…”

Aziraphale raises his free hand slowly and cups Crowley’s face. “Are you all right, dearest? I hadn’t meant to blurt that out, just now. Not the most romantic way to tell you how I feel. I had rather planned on a picnic. Perhaps I should ask your forgiveness for that, as well.” 

There’s a hint of humor now in Aziraphale’s tone, and that treasured fondness. Crowley starts to breathe again. They are returning to familiar territory, for the most part. He’s safe here. And, it turns out, against all probability, loved.

“It’s okay,” he stutters. “I’m good.”

A smile spreads on Aziraphale’s face. Crowley is suddenly overcome with an overwhelming desire to kiss it. 

So he does.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so I doubt Yom Kippur fic is a thing, but today has me thinking about making amends. The title comes from one phrase of a traditional Yom Kippur prayer, in which worshipers consider a list of transgressions they may have committed. Happy to chat with you about the nature of forgiveness and/or Good Omens - come say hi on tumblr at flowerfan2.


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